


The Hurt We Hide

by fawna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:37:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawna/pseuds/fawna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy knows that loving Clarke would never be easy. He’s seen her eyes focus on things that aren’t there, heard her cry out in her sleep, felt the way she grips tightly when they hug, as if reminding herself that he’s there.</p><p>But he thinks he could do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hurt We Hide

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is set somewhere in the distant future, where Clarke is back at camp.
> 
> Please note: this was written after 3x02 so later episodes may contradict some of the details of this fic.

Bellamy knows that loving Clarke would never be easy. He’s seen her eyes focus on things that aren’t there, heard her cry out in her sleep, felt the way she grips tightly when they hug, as if reminding herself that he’s there.

But he thinks he could do it.

He’s not perfect himself. He’s a man with rage always simmering just under his skin, who has never understood ‘head over heart’. He’s in love with Clarke Griffin, and maybe it’s a curse, but it feels a little like a blessing. Because he’s also heard how she says _‘Bellamy’_ and it sounds something like _‘I love you’._

She was _Wanheda_ and now she’s broken. She’s not really Clarke Griffin anymore, either. She’s somewhere in between, displaced. She’s back at Arkadia, but not really. She barely talks to anyone, anyone but him (a privilege he is still trying to understand). She eats breakfast in the black of night, she sits next to him and lets their knees touch. And as the early morning creeps in, she disappears into the forest, a myriad of weapons strapped across her body. Sometimes she beckons him to follow with a cock of her head, most times she drops her head and shoves her hands into her pockets, her body language saying _you are not welcome_. He doesn’t push, he understands that she needs time, and the fact that he’s the only one she’s opened up to is evidence alone that someday, _someday_ , she will be ready for him.

Today, he spots her around lunchtime, hovering by the edge of the tree line. She won’t come in, he knows, until dinnertime, when everyone gathers around the mess hall and she will go unnoticed. And so, when she disappears again, he doesn’t despair. But when dinnertime does come, he piles food onto two plates, and waits for her by the gap in the gate that she crawls through. Her lips quirk up into the small ghost of a small smile when she sees him and she dumps her game bag by his feet before slumping down next to him.

“Two good-sized hares in there. Should get me a few more arrows.”

He nods and slips the bag over his shoulder. He’ll trade them for her tomorrow.

She tears into her dinner then, juices seeping over her chin as she sinks her teeth into a hunk of duck. Without really meaning to, his lips pull up into an amused smile. After a while her eyes flick up to him and she does a double-take when she realises he’s smiling at her, her eyes narrowing.

“What?” she asks, defensive, and wipes her chin with her sleeve.

“Nothing,” he answers, but he’s still smiling a little.

He sees her start to smile back, but she bows her head down before he can really see.

“Something funny?” she asks, her eyes to her plate, the duck already back to her mouth.

“Nope.”

She looks up at him again then, eyebrows raised, and there is definitely a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “Okay,” she says slowly, and bites down into the duck again.

Their thighs are pressed together, and he knows that he didn’t initiate it. He tries not to initiate anything with her, instead letting her set the pace of the looks, the conversation, the touches. She falls asleep at around six and he’s tired too, because he’s adjusted to her weird sleeping schedule that’s designed specifically for avoiding others. He lifts her up though, even with his legs heavy and his eyes drooping, and carries her to her tent. He sets her down, gently as possible, and places a soft kiss to her forehead, because he really wants to, and he hopes he’ll be able to do it again, hopefully when she’s conscience.

“Night, Clarke,” he murmurs before pulling back and leaving her to what is sure to be a fitful sleep.

+

He’s killing himself. That’s what Octavia thinks. He has duties within Arcadia, mostly self-assigned. But he also has Clarke. He likes both of those things. He likes feeling like he’s helping, making things better. Because he sure fucked up a lot and that is a steady weight pressing into his chest and threatening to take away his air. So he lessens the weight by training others, offering to aid in hunting parties and military efforts. And he just likes Clarke, which is probably the most messed up part, because there’s no real reason for it. She’s distant and hollow, she’s dark and wild. But when she smiles at him, he wants to make it happen more.

“Sometimes I still see Finn,” she says all of a sudden and he whips his head up to look at her. She took him hunting today, and they’re crouched on the ground, setting up a trap. She doesn’t look at him, instead she concentrates too hard on the piece of thread she’s tying. “I feel him watching me.”

“Like a ghost?”

She shrugs, and winds the thread around a stick, once, twice, three times… “I guess. It feels more real than that, though. I see Maya too. Her skin is red and blistered.”

He nods, unsure of what to say. He sees them too, but only behind closed eyes.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” she asks, voice soft.

“Yes,” he answers, surprised that he believes it. “I think we did the best we could.”

She nods then, and they lapse back into silence.

They end up catching a wolf, skinny, but heavy enough that it takes the both of them to drag it to camp.

He doesn’t miss the way her expressions shutter off as she watches the life leave its eyes.

+

She kisses him a few nights later and it not like he expected because it’s soft, and she winds her fingers into his hair like she never wants to let go. He kisses her back, because of course he does, and holds her tight to him. After she pulls her lips from his, she buries her face in his neck and hugs him, her grip fierce. He tugs her closer. He doesn’t know what it means, or what will happen between them after this, but if she needs him to hold her, he will hold on until his arms can no longer take it.

+

They don’t talk about the kiss after that and Bellamy tries not to feel disappointed. She. Needs. Time.

But he needs her.

And having her so close makes it harder to forget. Makes his stomach twist uncomfortably when they eat breakfast together and their knees don’t touch and they don’t say anything substantial and she hunts by herself.

+

“What are you doing, Bellamy?” Octavia asks bluntly.

“Chopping wood?” he says, ignoring the double meaning teasing at the edge of her words.

“With Clarke,” she clarifies, a sharpness to her voice, like a blade placed at his neck.

“I’m not _doing_ anything, O,” he says harshly and cuts her look that says _drop it_.

“You realise who she is, right? Not even two months ago everyone on earth wanted her dead. She’s dangerous.”

“So am I, O. Do you remember what _I_ did to get here? I’m a killer too.”

Octavia grinds her teeth, her eyes ablaze. “She’s not like us, Bell. She thinks with her head, not her heart. She’ll hurt you.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he says definitively and punctuates his last word with a swift swing of his axe, the blade burying into the wood with a crack.

+

At midnight, she sits by him at their place by the gate, and they eat their breakfast. ‘Their place’ is a small area, mostly concealed by the towering metal of the ark. It is marked by a large, flimsy log that seems to be perpetually dewy and comes apart under their hands, flakes of bark sticking to their palms. Breakfast today is a thick porridge that tastes like nothing in particular, but is soothing in its heat, in the way it burns down his throat. He has a deal with one of the cooks that allows him to get their breakfast early. In return, he offers the cook’s son private combat training once a week.

“Octavia talked to me yesterday,” Clarke says out of nowhere and looks at anything but him.

“Yeah? What did she say?” he asks gently. They haven’t really talked much since the kiss, only flat ‘hello’s and ‘goodbye’s.

“She wants me to stay away from you. There was some threatening involved.”

He swallows. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t really get to say anything. Nothing I would have said would’ve made her happy, anyway.”

“You know that she doesn’t speak for me, right?” he asks, turning his head to try and catch her eyes, but she’s staring resolutely forward. “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

She looks up at him then, and he almost looks away, not sure how to deal with the intensity in her eyes. “I know,” she says softly, and a sad little smile tugs at her lips. “I’m not sure I could, anyway.”

He nods and they lapse into silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, a silence that is full and warm and makes him feel that he’s getting somewhere with her again.

The way she presses her leg up against his certainly doesn’t go unnoticed, or unappreciated.

She doesn’t offer for him to hunt with her, but he doesn’t mind too much. He joins Monty, Lincoln, Harper and Monroe in the Jeep and they scout a stretch of the eastern border. And it’s—nice. Everything has been so heavy lately, and it’s nice to settle into easy conversation with people he loves.

“How is Clarke going?” Monty asks Bellamy softly. Their conversation is made private as Harper is flirting loudly with Monroe (who appears completely oblivious) and Lincoln is engrossed in a sketch. Bellamy has found recently that he’s become the authority on Clarke. It makes sense, he’s the only one she’s opened up to, but it never fails to make him feel a little lightheaded. Even Abby asks about Clarke in a voice so controlled it sounds practiced. Her eyes give it away through; the hurt that she hides. Bellamy saw how Abby was without Clarke. She became overly focused on little things, as if it would make her forget that she was missing something. The problem is, Abby still hasn’t got Clarke back. She didn’t get her daughter; the girl who topped her classes, with fire in her veins, who cared so much it nearly killed her. She got an untamed wildfire; a woman who is aloof, who has ghosts in her eyes and is trying to figure out what it is to be human.

“Clarke is…” Bellamy tries, but. What can he say? _Clarke_ _is troubled? Clarke is fucking terrifying in the best way?_ _Clarke is not Clarke anymore?_ “She’s trying,” he settles for, and she is. Yes, she mostly interacts with him, and yes, it’s hard for the both of them, but she is trying to let him in. There are other things too. Like when she lets the young children braid her hair, or when she helps dig trenches for the new sewerage system, or when she carefully packs soil around the little plants in the rows of herb gardens. They’re things she does in silence, but they’re still glimpses into the Clarke he knows and loves, the Clarke who just _cares_ so deeply.

Monty nods, and Bellamy is grateful that he doesn’t try to push too hard. The two men integrate themselves back into the conversation fairly easily with Monty and Harper flirting shamelessly with Monroe, just to see if she’ll ever notice. Bellamy can’t stop laughing; Monty and Harper’s flirting is steadily getting more ridiculous, Monroe is brushing of their compliments and innuendos without even realising, and Lincoln seems altogether confused as to what is happening. There is a taste in his mouth—something sweet and familiar, but something that has been lost for a while. It tastes like joy. Their bubble is shattered when the radio crackles to life and they’re warned of suspicious activity by the border, a kilometre south of their position. Now tensions sits heavy on their shoulders as muscles tighten in anticipation and fingers reach to touch at guns.

A group of around twelve hulking grounders are making their way into Arcadian territory when the Jeep pulls to a stop.

“You are breaching territory lines,” Bellamy calls authoritatively, stepping from the Jeep to be flanked by the others. “State your purpose.”

“Oh, we are?” asks a deep feminine voice, coming from who seems to be the group’s leader. The grounder woman is clearly going for innocence in her stunted English, but Bellamy can see the way the grounders bristle, tight grips on their weapons. “We weren’t aware.”

“Well now you are,” Bellamy rumbles. “And it would be in your best interests to turn back.”

A woman smiles then, a twisted, snarled thing and raises her sword. “Of course,” she growls, her voice thick with sarcasm, before leaping at him.

Bellamy’s aware of a number of things at once; a searing pain in his arm, the bright red of blood, his body retaliating without him thinking about it, him landing a blow, Harper radioing for backup, being tugged into the Jeep. Then he’s on his back, on the floor of the Jeep and someone is wrapping his arm in cloth and the world is spinning so, so fast and he is so, so dizzy…

+

He comes to a while later, still on his back in the Jeep, but the lighting is different, darker. Before his brain can tell him not to, he screams out in pain, his roars echoing back to him, as black spots dance across his vision.

“Bellamy!” someone shrieks, sounding as if they’re in as much pain as he is. “Bellamy!” It takes a moment for him to place the voice, mostly because he hasn’t heard it at that volume for so long. Once he realises, he tries to call out a ‘ _Clarke_ ’ but it seems he isn’t sure how to connect his brain to his body anymore.

It doesn’t matter, because she’s hovering over him within seconds, her hand cupping his cheek.

“My mum is right behind me, okay, Bellamy? She’ll fix you. Just—stay with me. I swear to God if you leave me, Bellamy, I’ll slaughter you—I will.” Her eyes widen and she grips his face tightly. “You know I will—killing is the only thing I’m good at, Bell.”

He tries to hold on, tries to focus on her nails digging into his skin, or the tear just under her left eye, but the pain is much louder and soon the world gives way to darkness.

+

 

 

The world creeps back slowly. A thin mattress pressing against his back. The smell of metal. A yellow light. Beeping. All these things seep like thick tar back into his awareness. Clarke. He reaches for her instantly, shaking at her shoulder from where she’s fallen asleep with her head propped on his bed.

She blinks sleepily a few times before her eyes light up and she throws herself at him, half climbing over him with her arms wrapping around his neck and her knee digging uncomfortably into his thigh. She starts to pull back but he holds her close with his fingers threading through her hair, and pulls her lips to his. This kiss is rougher than the first as she pushes against him, slanting her mouth so she can slide her tongue in deeper.

They eventually pull back, chests heaving and lips pink.

“You know killing isn’t the only thing you're good at, right?” is the first thing he can remember to say. “You’re a good person, Clarke.”

“No I’m not,” she says sternly and tries to pull back but he just holds her tighter.

“You’re _not_ Wanheda, you’re Clarke Griffin, and you are more than a body count.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says softly, her eyes pleading with him and he can hear what she’s not saying— _I will hurt you_.

“Princess, you’re worth the pain,” he says before pulling her down for another burning kiss.

+

Loving Clarke is not easy. Sometimes she needs time to herself, disappearing into the forest for hours. But when she comes back, he always has a plate of food for her and she always has a grateful smile and a story for him. Other times she snaps at him and yells until her voice runs out, or she’ll set up dozens of torches around their room, keeping him awake, all to keep ‘them’ away.

But he’s the only one that gets to hear her say _‘I love you’_ , and that’s all that really matters.

+

 

**Author's Note:**

> Was this complete trash? Probably. Am I sorry? Not really. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@delinguents](http://delinguents.tumblr.com)


End file.
